


Distractions

by FeeFido



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeeFido/pseuds/FeeFido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift being a disgrace to Decepticons everywhere and taking Optimus' spike like a pro. That's literally all this is... With a little exposition in the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Was meant to be a little PWP for my drabble collection, but it got away from me. _Way_ away from me. I blame there not being nearly enough Drift/Optimus. All my pent up shipping frustrations had to be let out somehow.
> 
> Also, [that size difference tho](http://41.media.tumblr.com/555593761d3a2aff32e1e11697e4d40b/tumblr_inline_o4f5lf7YK61r3ofpc_500.png)

He'd be lying if he said he wouldn't have expected this from Drift. The smaller mech's infatuation stems from his loyalty quite noticeably, and leaves very little for the Prime to question in regards to his thoughts or his feelings towards him. He's seen and experienced the very same from several other bots in his time, loyalty bleeding into reverence, into awe, into desire; and it would seem the same holds true with the rare, wayward Decepticon. Looking at him when otherwise unoccupied, perking up noticeably whenever his attentions were placed on him, and doing whatever he could to garner his praise.

Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have considered this at all, would have gently turned down Drift's silent propositioning out of range from prying audios and discouraged any further prompts in the future, just as he'd done with the many others before him; and, indeed, that's probably what the others are assuming he's doing now, taking him aside to calmly tell him to stop. But after everything he's been through on this planet, after the atrocities against his kind he'd just witnessed, the systematic hunting and killing of every Autobot who'd done nothing but try and protect these humans, he needs this break in protocol. Something to cool that boiling rage that's been threatening to overcome him.

Besides, it's been far too long since he last interfaced and, again, he'd be a liar indeed if he refused to acknowledge his own attraction to Drift's appealing frame.

Optimus is already running hot underneath his plates by the time they've made it behind a suitable outcropping of rock yards away from the other bots, his coolant rushing rapidly through dispersal lines and fans whirring to their maximum effort as he leans back against the cool surface, and all for the perfect image that just so appealing frame makes standing between his legs, helm held high and face tilted back just so; the perfect height.

He grinds his dentae together as Drift’s servos trail over each segmented piece of his abdominal plating, then flit down over his crotch, feeling the heated metal burning beneath his fingers with exploratory slowness, and the Prime twitches in an aborted thrust as they rub teasing circles around the rim of his spike housing. The enticement is unnecessary though. His array is already primed— _has been_ —since the moment he’d turned and met the samurai's sights from across their 'camp',  and saw Drift’s optics subtly shift into that particular shade of cyan, brightening with interest as he’d eyed his new body, before a wordless conversation passed between them and they left together; leaving behind confused looks from their new human cohorts, and Bumblebee’s indignant beeping.

The light caresses across his interface array only serve to tease his pressurized spike pressing insistently against its still closed housing, desperate to be released into those much smaller hands, as small airy moans escape him with every fleeting pass.

Drift isn’t fairing much better, optics no longer cyan but a bright livid celeste, glowing near white with his arousal while his fans hum gently inside of him. And he’s yet to be touched himself.

“Is this alright?” Drift asks suddenly, uncertainty evident in his vocalizer as he continues to hover nervously around his housing and—Primus—even his voice has dipped lower in his need. Optimus can only shutter his optics to avoid releasing his throbbing spike into the samurai’s deft hands right there, the need to retain at least some form of restraint winning out over his desires.

“Yes, it’s... You’re more than fine,” he groans once he’s certain he’s collected himself, and Drift smiles up at him once he looks down, the ex con preening at even that small bit of praise, optics filled with warmth and devotion, and so eager to please.

The sound of Optimus’ panel quickly irising open is unnaturally loud in the silence of the dark desert, and the Prime feels himself burn as the heat of Drift’s startled exvents hits his extended spike; thick and silver, made up of smooth overlapping ridges, and without a single mod or biolight on him. Most mechs would have probably been put-off by his lack of... decoration. But not Drift.

“Sensei...” He murmurs, looking at his bared interface rod like it's the most enticing piece of equipment he's seen, like he can't wait to get his servos around it. Regardless of truth or his own unconscious wishes, Optimus allows himself to feel some amount of pride over it.

Optimus is the next to gasp though, the first touch of Drift’s mouth on his length unexpected and sudden, sending a shock through his sensor net and overwhelming him with the soft brush of lips and the pleased moan that meets his audios; that he _feels_ , right on the tip of his spike, moments before that mouth is parting open and taking him in.

He wasn't prompted, wasn't even hinted at him wanting this, but any hesitation the samurai had earlier is thrown away as Drift dives straight into it, sucking hard at the bulbous head and licking broad, wet stripes up and down his silver shaft, one hand braced against his thigh and the other wrapped around his spike. He only makes it so far before he's nudging at the back of his intake. His fingers don’t even come close to meeting around his girth. But none of it deters him.

Optimus moans, throwing his head back against the rock face and squeezing his optics shut, but the image of the little samurai eagerly servicing his spike remains burned into his vision. After vorns of nothing, it feels so much better than he would have ever expected. He already feels the steady build of an overload twisting like a spring in the pit of his tank, and the visual of Drift’s helm bobbing on his spike isn’t making it any easier controlling himself.

He’s about to ask Drift to slow down, restraint and pride winning out once again, but before he can muster up the words through his pleasure wrought processor Drift is pulling off his spike with a wet pop, optics glazed over and lips shiny with lubricants. Optimus is caught somewhere between sighing in relief, and groaning at the loss.

“I want to do something for you,” Drift says, vents panting with excitement as he kisses one thigh, then the other, his hand still stroking over Optimus’ spike in long, slow pulls that keeps the Prime’s body thrumming with pleasure and anticipation both. The samurai meets his optics, bright and needing and almost pleading with him. “Can you promise to hold still?”

Optimus nods without thought, the movement feeling disjointed and unreal as he watches the demure smile that pulls at the corners of Drift’s stained lips, and he turns his helm to adoringly kiss the side of his spike. He can feel himself throb in the small mech's grip despite himself.

Drift takes his spike into his mouth again, glossa laving the head in smooth sinuous twists before starting to bob up and down once again. Optimus’ hands curl at his sides where they’ve dug into the canyon rock, the effort not to move proving to be almost too much as he feels that wicked appendage running along the underside of his shaft, tonging the seam of two overlapping plates and nudging at the cluster node just underneath the tip.

He could come like this, Optimus thinks, with just the tip of his spike held inside the small mech’s warm mouth, being suckled on like a energon treat until he’s overloaded and filled his mouth and coated that deft tongue with his transfluid. He knows the extent of Drift’s devoutness now, not just to the cause but to him. And he knows he wouldn’t hesitate to swallow all that he could. Optimus groans, thinking he may even _thank_ him for it, and wondering just what else he'd be willing to do.

Drift slows for a moment, lips sliding smoothly back to where he’s just barely inside, the motion maddening when he’s so close to his completion, but Optimus can only watch. Can only hold his vents in check as he takes in the look that crosses the samurai’s golden face, concentration and determination mixing behind his optics before they shutter closed.

Then, Optimus’ vents stutter, choking on his next intake as Drift opens wide, and he’s suddenly being taken deeper than before. Dentae lightly scraping, glossa sliding, the tip of his spike nudging at the back of his mouth once more; and then he actually feels himself pass into Drift’s intake, feels the inside of his slim throat hugging tight and hot around his spike, and he nearly releases the whole of his transfluid reservoir then and there as little more than half of his length is taken in one smooth motion.

An odd, choked noise escapes out of his chest, and Drift opens his optics to look up at him through half-shuttered lenses, his gaze searing, mouth stretched wide around his thickness, and the cables of his throat slightly bulging where he’s being held without complaint. He groans at the sight, louder, and the rock crumbles under his clenching fists.

Slowly, Drift draws back, the noise slick and obscene as his spike drags out of his intake coated in his oral lubricants, before he’s driving back down again. Hot and wet and so perfectly snug.

It's without thought Optimus wrenches a hand away from the rock face and reaches down to shakily grasp the back of Drift’s helm in one large servo, fingers curling and thumb brushing over the sharp crests adorning his head, before he quickly yanks it away.

He’s about to apologize—as best as he is able—but then Drift’s grabbing his hand in a shockingly fierce grip before it can get far, and he's dragging it back down, pressing Optimus' hand back to his helm and moaning insistently around his spike. And Optimus moans in turn, loud and unhindered, as the vibrations caressing his spike push him that much closer. His hand closes around the samurai’s helm on its own volition, fingers rubbing encouragingly into the base of his crests and stroking up the tallest one in some crude imitation of the hand still rubbing his length. The action holds a similar response, and Drift redoubles his efforts, sucking noisily and swallowing around the silver rod as pre fluid begins to trickle down his throat.

“Drift, I’m going to– _nng_ , to overload soon,” Optimus almost can’t get the words out, his cycling vents loud and releasing short bursts of too-hot air over the small ex con huddled so close between his legs, like he wants to integrate into his very armor. Drift only moans, his mouth never breaking his attentions as he continues on with practiced—Optimus shutters, _practiced_ —ease.

“ _Drift_ ,” he tries to warn again, vocalizer hinging on desperate, unsure if he can hold anymore.

Drift pulls back, only just enough to rasp a quiet, “I know.” And he plunges back, his servos vigorously pumping to drag him that last bit closer.

“Ah, _ahh_ , _Primus_ –!” Optimus grits between his clenched dentae, his engine revving like a growl deep within his chassis as that internal spring coils tighter and tighter. Drift swallows, uncaring, and the Prime’s optics flash white as he feels the tight constricting heat of Drift’s cables tightening around him, every strut in his frame going rigid as the coil breaks. He overloads with a shout, his servo tightening around the small mech’s helm and forcing him still as his spike pulses thick lines down his throat. Just as he'd thought, Drift continues to suck around him, and swallows all he has to give, without pause.

He doesn't stop until Optimus' hand loosens around his helm and slips away, freeing him to move back and release his spike with a wet sound, silver plates shining with lubricants, but not a trace left on him.

Optinus isn't aware he's collapsed on his aft until after he's opened his optics again, and Drift is suddenly at optic-level with him, standing between where his legs had splayed out in a very un-Primely fashion, and demurely wiping at the corners of his mouth as he studies him with those still too-bright eyes. Optimus' olfactory sensors can distinctly pick up the scent of ozone emanating from the samurai's body, and his still extended spike gives a steady throb, thinking about the smaller mech's panels popping open just from servicing his spike.

"Good?" Drift speaks up, voice hoarse and distant, and it takes the Prime another moment to realize his engine is still revving, his armor expanded and releasing puffs of steam in attempts to cool himself down even as his array is priming up for another go. The realization only serves to heat him up further in his embarrassment. He willfully forces his body to calm itself, until his engine's revs have quieted down to a gentle rumble and he can properly speak.

"'Good' wouldn't do it justice. I needed that more than I can say. Thank you." Optimus purrs, and Drift is immediately lighting up from the praise, his quickly down-turned optics unable to hide just how _pleased_ he is to hear those words coming from him. Optimus shifts. "I just wish I'd... performed better."

His sensors ping as there is a noticeable increase in pheromones in the air around him, and that sickly sweet smell becomes all the more prominent. Drift shifts subtly, and his optics meet his again.

"There's still time... I could help you again...?" He offers, and it's impossible not to notice the way his eyes keep suggestively glancing down between his legs, eyeing his piece with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint, and there's not a doubt in his processor that Drift wants this. Would gladly repeat everything he'd just done, would do even more, to make him crash in another processor-stalling overload again. His processor demands that they stop though, that they've already been gone long enough, that the others may very well come looking if they take too long getting back to them. It's not safe to be separated for too long, they need to get back, they need–

Instead, his vocalizer blurts out. "Can your valve take me too?"

Drift doesn't have to be told. He is already crawling into his lap, eagerly nodding his assent, and the heady aroma of pheromones and fresh lubricant invades his intakes as the smaller mech presses against him, chassis to chassis, thighs spread wide over his lap.

There isn't a hope that Optimus can resist touching him now, so he doesn't even try. He grabs him and clutches Drift to his chest, leaning into his neck to take in more of his scent, groaning into pliant cables as his servos settle on Drift's body perched so easily in his lap. His hands shamelessly grope his frame, stroking the rotor on his back and petting his sides, until his servos settle on his middle where they easily encircle his waist, thumbs overlapping at the silver Bugatti symbol in the middle. Drift moans next to his audios, clutching his massive arms as he shifts and bucks in his unwavering grasp, and Optimus' engine revs in another growl as his bared valve rubs where his spike is caught between their bodies. He finally allows himself to thrust then, his shaft sliding wetly between plush valve mesh and spreading lubricant across his length.

He's so lost in the sensation, in the tight tug of anticipation on his spark as his blunted tip prods between his lips, it almost doesn't register in his processor when their mouths softly brush together. Imploring, and oddly timid.

The fact that Drift had just kissed him doesn't solidify right away. It's a human thing he's unaccustomed to, something that holds no to merit to him or he'd—apparently wrongly—assumed to any of his kind. It's odd and foreign, the touch not as stimulating as other areas would be; but he doesn't deny Drift his pleasure. He turns his helm slightly into the kiss, parting his lips to the small prodding glossa, and feels his spark leap as Drift moans into his mouth. His grip tightens around the ex con and he bucks up again to a fresh rush of lubricant, dripping down his spike and across his thighs.

Drift breaks them apart, smaller vents heaving with the strain of their two overheated bodies pressed so closely together, but he doesn't try to push away. He continues to mouth at his lips, panting like a breathless human as he squirms and gasps into their barely maintained kiss, and it's far more enticing than any mimicry of humans has any right to be.

"Quickly, Sensei. _Please_."

And Optimus obliges, easily lifting the small samurai with a breathless mewl and impaling him on his spike in one solid thrust.

Now, he's the one to initiate the kiss, clutching him against his chest and squeezing just shy of denting his armor as Drift at once overloads around him, pushed over the end just from being penetrated at last, as his valve calipers grip him tight and he cries against his mouth.


	2. BONUS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was reading through some drabbles I had on my tumblr, and this one reminded me of this, and I thought to myself... this has to be what happens afterward.
> 
> Like... I'm almost certain I had written this drabble with this fic in mind.
> 
> So yeah, here's something a little more.

Drift doesn’t want to move from this place. His chest is so warm and comfortable under his head, his helm fitting perfectly in the space between his headlights with his vents blowing warm over the top of his crest, and his rumbling intakes purring gently into his audiles. His thighs are spread open like their sockets have come loose from the rough handling, straddling Optimus' lap all slack and strut-less like he couldn’t move, even if he _wanted_ to; but he’s the most comfortable he’s felt in ages. And those _hands_ , one large servo gently petting the rotor on his back while the other cups his aft, gently rocking him on the spike still buried deep inside him, stimulating all his nodes and making his legs tremble.

No, Drift _definitely_ doesn’t want to move from this place.

But he knows he’ll need to be moving soon anyway, and he sighs dejectedly into Optimus’ chest before slowly pushing himself up, his hands braced against the Prime’s abdomen and the one servo still cupping his aft the only things keeping his sorely tired body upright, when all he wants is to collapse back against that powerful frame. Underneath him, reclining against the rock face with his legs sprawled and his engine still gently revving, Optimus watches him move with an expression that’s too soft for Drift to rightly read. But he’s sated, tired, and obviously doesn’t want to move either, and the thought makes Drift’s spark oscillate a little faster in its chamber. Knowing he wouldn’t even have to fight him for it, would only simply have to lay back down, and Optimus would gladly keep him there in his lap for as long as they had. Holding him, nuzzling him, steadily milking the lingering tremors of overload out of them while they kiss.

Which isn’t long, he reminds himself. They’ve been missing for long enough now that their comrades are bound to get worried, and one of the others are almost certain to come searching for them soon. And, as much as he enjoys this, he would be loath to allow himself to be caught in such a… compromising position.

“Do you need help?” Optimus inquires, his servos already migrating further up to gently encircle his waist, idly stroking and plucking his seams as they go, and not for the first time Drift feels his spark spin wildly in his chest. 

“No, thank you. I think I have it.” Drift smiles easily despite the whirling inside his spark and presses his palms down, rocking himself back in order to get his legs underneath him.

Only for his valve to clinch, his vents hitching as something inside him  _twinges_ , and every caliper in him abruptly cycles down in shock.

“ _Ah!_ ” Drift yelps as his thighs clamp down around his partner’s hips, and Optimus gasps, his larger servos abruptly squeezing around him as the ones on his chassis ball up into tightly clenched fists. Primus, _that hurt_. The usually so stoic and unshakable warrior has to bite his dentae harshly together to keep another pathetic sound from escaping him as he tries to shift his body, his frame shaking with the effort not to simply buckle forward.

“Drift? What’s wrong?” He can’t look at him, but he hears the concern in Prime's voice, feels the blunted tips of his fingers as they stroke soothing, worried lines down his tense struts, and he forces himself to calm. Deep vents, in and out, before trying again.

Nothing. He pushes up, something inside him _tugs_ , and pain shoots up inside him as his legs forcefully squeeze, making him stop.

“S-something…” He can’t. He can’t say it. Even as his valve ripples at the sharp stinging pain and his vents heave in a barely concealed panic, the embarrassment wins out, and his vocalizer refuses to form the words. He shakes his helm and grits his fangs down at his balled fists. “I think I may need some help, actually… please…”

“Alright…” Optimus speaks easily and he returns his hands to his waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the tight and trembling plating of his abdomen, his grip holding a little firmer now as he takes his body and lifts-

“A-AHA!! STOP STOP _STOP!!_ ”

Only to abruptly drop him back down, another pained yelp getting forced from him as Optimus’ spike is driven back against the roof of his clamping valve, the feeling no longer pleasurable. Just sharp and stinging and unbearably painful against his over-sensitive nodes. Like something inside him has twisted, and with every tug and shift it’s only pulled tighter.

“Sensei,” Drift whimpers down at Optimus’ chest, the shame and embarrassment burning in his face hotter than the pain between his legs, “I think we’re stuck…”


End file.
